The Seven Ages of Man
by purplecleric
Summary: "One man in his time plays many parts..." A look at Bobby's life, through the eyes of some of the people he encounters on his journey. (And apologies to Shakespeare this time.)
1. The Infant

"Please... stop. Stop it now. Please..."

Her head sinks to her knees, hands covering her ears trying to blot out the pitiful mewl. The wooden floor boards feel cold through the thin cotton of her nightdress and she shivers in the chill of early morning. The cries falter, there's a couple of hitching breaths and then ...quiet. She holds her own breath, trying not to hope, praying –

"Dear Lord, let him sleep, let me sleep, please..."

But her prayers are in vain. The cries resume with renewed vigour, their klaxon wail disturbing the small figure lying in the bed on the other side of the room.

"Mommee!"

She shouldn't have tried to put him down, shouldn't have wanted to relieve her arms of their hot, squirming burden, shouldn't have hoped...Frustration making her actions more perfunctory than tender, she picks up the baby again, feeling the ache in tired arms and the twinge in the small of her back. The cries are momentarily muffled as his face is buried against her shoulder then he arches and throws himself back, the muscles in her arms screaming their protest in sync with his cries as she stops him falling.

"Shhh!"

Left hand firmly clamping the baby to her body, her right hand strokes the sleep- sweaty hair of her older son, and despite the noise he quickly settles. If only the younger boy were so easy...Not wanting to disturb the sleeping child again, she takes her squalling bundle downstairs, drawing a blanket over them as she settles on the couch.

Although she had checked his diaper before she had laid him in the crib, she checks once more, not wanting anything to add to his distress. The terry cotton is warm and dry, the pin fastened. Maybe he is hungry again. Her fingers fumble small buttons and she brings the baby to her breast. Even this is not easy; his small, restless hands forcing milk-heavy flesh away although he is eagerly trying to suckle – his frustration now mirroring hers, her sobs now as pitiful as his.

First time round, it had been blissful. She remembers cradling a baby contentedly nursing and the plop of nipple leaving mouth, the milky dribbling smile. She remembers long naps and peaceful night- time feeds – mother and son in easy concert. He had been easy to live with, easy to name – Francis after her father, after her – easy to love. Sweet, little Frankie...

But Bobby... everything about him had been difficult – the pregnancy, the labour, the birth. He had finally been dragged into the world and seemed to have been protesting ever since. Even naming him had been tricky with pressure from family to give him his father's name – she winces at the twinge as the frantic mouth finally latches on and the milk begins to flow. Not a twinge of guilt, no, not guilt... but she knows she is deluding herself.

His father...her husband or her lover? The man who blew the housekeeping at the track, who stank of cheap perfume and expensive lies, who disappeared for days on end, who was never here when she needed him? Or the man who flattered her with his lens, with his attention, who held a torch for her even after she married another, who made the effort to see her even when he was stationed abroad, who fixed things for her instead of broke them? She searches her son's face for clues but all she can see is deception and more lies. In the end she had chosen to call him Robert; a common, inoffensive name that invoked no guilt but no affection either. Just shame.

Shame that she could not connect with him, shame that her actions had given him life but now ruined that gift, shame that she did not love him because of all he represented, shame that sometimes she struggled even to care...Her hot tears splash onto his forehead; a wretched baptism.

"Oh, Bobby, I'm sorry. So, so sorry..."

At the sound of her voice, he stirs and his large brown innocent eyes gaze at her. There is no satisfied plop, no milky dribble but for a brief, heart stopping moment there is a smile. She lifts him up to face her.

"Hello, Bobby."

The smile returns and a chubby curious hand reaches out, his eyes fixed on hers. She finds herself smiling in response, and her sobs are now ones of relief. It didn't matter who his father was, what she had done – there was this fresh hope of a baby, this new start...

"Welcome to this crazy world, my son, to this crazy house, this crazy family. Welcome. Ma era bella, bella davvero in via dei matti numero zero "

She sings the silly Italian lullaby, just as her mother had sung to her and his hands wave, trying to catch the words in the air, the smile never leaving his face, his eyes never leaving hers. A sudden wave of tiredness overwhelms her and she yawns, watches his yawn in response, a little hand rubbing a sleepy eye. Settling back, she draws him to her chest, her hand stroking his soft dark hair, his hand tangled in her curls. Her last thoughts as she drifts off to sleep are another prayer: a prayer familiar to all mothers.

"Dear Lord, please don't let my weaknesses and my mistakes ruin him. Let him be healthy and happy, please..."


	2. The Schoolboy

"Whoa! Stop, hold on..."

He catches the fleeing boy by the waist, and spins him around.

"Bobby! What are you doing here? You should be in school."

He steps back and looks at the pale face framed by damp, dark curls, at the hand-me-down sweater already outgrown to reveal knobbly wrists, at intelligent eyes filled with innocence and... insolence.

"Well?"

"It's raining, gotta go somewhere. And the library's closed – flooding."

The words are spoken softly but with bravado and for a moment he almost rises to the bait - almost. But there is something in Bobby's manner that suggests that a return to school or a trip home would not be welcome, that there are other reasons for the boy to be in church apart from secret shelter on a wet, miserable afternoon.

"You must be cold, let's see if we can find something to warm you up."

He heads down the aisle towards the altar, not looking behind and smiles when he hears, after a moment's hesitation, the shuffling footsteps following him. Opening the door to the small room behind the sacristy, he gestures the boy in. There is just room for the table and a couple of chairs, a counter bearing a hot plate, coffee pot, and a bottle of milk. Taking a shabby cardigan from the hook on the door leading to the even smaller bathroom, he wraps it around the thin shivering shoulders and ponders what to do next. A warm drink? He eyes his beloved coffee pot with a moment of regret and fishes a pan from the cupboard. As he warms the milk he is aware that, although Bobby has affected a nonchalant air, his sharp eyes are studying his every move.

"So what's this place, then?"

"I guess you could call it my comfort station."

"Thought God was supposed to be your comfort."

He pauses, considering the statement, and then continues to pour the milk into the chipped mugs. The words were so typical of this boy, who challenged every notion, whose quick mind sought inconsistencies and flaws in reasoning, who made the preparations for First Communion both a trial and an interesting test of faith. But now is not the time for a theological debate; instinct leads him to believe Bobby's difficulties are more earthly than abstract.

"What about you, Bobby? Got your own comfort station?"

He sets the mugs down on the table and takes the remaining seat, steam fogging his glasses as he lifts the milk to his lips.

"Careful, it's hot."

But the boy does not lift the mug, just wraps his hands around it. The sleeves of the too small sweater ride up and he is alarmed to see a crescent of four stark bruises on the thin forearm; fingertip imprints of rough handling.

"Books, I guess."

"Plenty of books at school – or is that where..."

He points at Bobby's arm, and the boy self-consciously pulls the sleeve down.

"School's boring."

He can detect no fear or worry in Bobby's voice, only contempt. So school wasn't the source of this particular problem.

"Reckon your mom's got books by the dozen, her being a librarian..."

That got a reaction.

Trying to seem casual, he watches the signs of agitation over the rim of his mug. Watches Bobby fidget uneasily, fingers pulling on a loose thread of that sorry sweater, eyes darting everywhere but at him, and waits.

"Father...what's a cunt?"

Sweet Jesus! Where had the boy picked up language like that?

"Why do you want to know, Bobby?"

"Mama says that's all Dad's interested in, that if I wanted to get his attention I had to get one... I don't...''

After the initial anguished burst, the words trail off and he can see pain and confusion cloud usually clear brown eyes.

"Anything else?"

"She says that the Devil has sent her visions and voices and the torments of Hell as a reward for her sins and that Dad is the biggest demon of them all and she..."

He listens to the torrent of words and hurt, the jumbled confusion, and tries not to think of other Goren confessions driven by Sabbath remorse and post – Communion guilt. The rain continues its steady beat against the window, the light begins to fade and a skin forms and wrinkles on the neglected milk. At last the words dry up.

"...don't think God is listening."

"He hears you, Bobby."

Even as he speaks the words, he can hear the hollow platitude and is not surprised when the boy erupts with anger, sending the mug crashing to the stone floor.

"Yeah, so why doesn't He do something about it? Why let it happen? Why make Momma mad? Why?"

The last word is lost in tears and muffled by a face buried in folded arms. Why, indeed? The eternal question; why does God let bad things happen? He suspects his usual reassurances to troubled parishioners will carry no weight here. Pressure presenting itself as a need to move, he stands and turns on the light before setting about clearing spilt milk and broken china. Gradually, he becomes aware of being watched again, of brown eyes questioning.

"God works..."

"In mysterious ways, yeah, I know. "

The tone is dismissive; just another adult who had listened but not really heard.

"Perhaps he sent the rain, flooded the library and brought you here. Okay, it's a little thin –"

He laughs at the look of scorn on Bobby's face.

"But there's stuff I can do, I don't just pray and hope God will sort it out."

There were things he can do; he will talk to Mrs Goren about seeing a doctor, he will talk to her husband about the impact his behaviour had on his sons, he will talk to the school. Most importantly, he will-

His train of thought is disturbed by the flushed and panting deacon bursting through the door.

"Father Santoro! One of the parish boys is missing! "

The deacon's frantic eyes alight on the small figure wrapped in borrowed knitwear.

"Oh..."

He sees the fear return to Bobby's eyes, and begins to offer his reassurance.

"At the risk of sounding preachy-"

"It's kinda your job, Father."

They both smile at the joke, and he is heartened to see the spirit hasn't gone from the boy.

"You're not alone, Bobby, not even when it feels like it. And I'm not just talking about God. You have friends; you just need to open your eyes and see them. Remember that, will you?"

He looks at Bobby in askance and only when he receives a small nod of acknowledgement does he turn to the deacon.

"Not missing, Emilio, just lost for a little while. Now let's get this young man home."


	3. The Lover

"Stop here!"

The lot is dark and secluded and she can make out the ocean sparkling in the lights of Canarsie Pier through the windscreen. A good place to park, a good place for-

As if reading her mind, Bobby's arm slips about her shoulders, drawing her close and she lifts her face to his. His free hand cradles her cheek as he takes his time with the kiss; his tongue exploring the curve of her lips, tracing the seam, parting them, slipping between... God, he was a good kisser, not like Scott...

Her own tongue meets his and she becomes fascinated with textures, with the smooth underside, the rough tip, hard teeth, soft lips. Not so soft lips; his kiss becomes harder, more urgent and a restless hand runs down and up her back making her arch into him, before burying itself in her hair, freshly permed for the prom. Her own hand explores his curls, natural of course – boys seem to have that luck, just like long lashes; her own feeling stiff and sticky under three coats of mascara.

His other hand cups her jaw line and his thumb strokes her cheek; cups her shoulder, strokes her collarbone; cups her breast, strokes her nipple through the faux satin of her dress which suddenly feels constricting. As if again reading her thoughts, he slips dress strap, bra strap from her shoulder, down her arm as his mouth follows the trail left by his hand; hot kisses on jaw, neck, collar bone, shoulder, the upper slope of her breast... He pauses and she can feel hot breath, cold night air and her nipple tightens and lifts to meet his tongue.

She feels the urge to get even closer to him, to feel more of him, to have him surround her, fill her - the need making her squeeze her thighs together and wriggle on the seat. His hands still and his mouth abandons her breast as he lifts his head to look at her.

"You OK?"

His voice is thick and he's not a mind reader, after all.

"Just...uncomfortable."

Her own voice seems to have dropped an octave.

"Scoot over."

She senses, rather than sees, his grin of anticipation as he slides his seat back and she slides over the centre console into his lap; experience has taught them it is useless trying to fit his long body and long legs into the cramped back seat. She flinches as her bare back briefly touches the cold glass of the side window and she feels a momentary longing for Scott's shorter legs, bigger car, to lie back on his blanket-covered seat. A longing lost as Bobby's hand warms chilled skin with its touch, its slide down body and satin, as his mouth treats her neglected breast to his kisses.

Her hand slips inside his jacket; smooth cotton, hard buttons, hardening nipples. He twitches as she runs her hand down his side, along the line of his waistband, across the cold leather and colder metal of his belt to hotter regions of straining fabric.

His groan thrills her and she flattens her palm, rubs and squeezes and it is his turn to arch, head now thrown back, eyes closing, groaning again, thrilling her again with the power she has over him. But he does not remain powerless for long; his hand again in her hair, pulls her down to reclaim her mouth, the other hand fights its way through ruffles to her bare leg, toned and tanned from cheerleader practice. Tongues battle, as she fights with button and zipper, as he fights with the frills until their hands find heat under cotton and stroke and squeeze in sync.

Kisses now as frantic as their gasps, as their hands, until his hand moves from over to under her panties, 'til his fingers tangle in other curls, 'til he parts and touches –oh!

And now it is her head rolling back, the cool glass a relief in all the heat; her back arching again, her bare breasts an invitation he accepts with his mouth and there is not enough air, no relief from the relentless rhythm of tongue and fingers and –

Suddenly she feels exposed, too vulnerable – half naked and laid open while he is still in suit and tie and she hauls herself up, clambers to straddle him - wrestling with full skirts that had seemed so elegant when they danced and now were just frustrating - eager to take back her power. And she can see that she has it, as her damp heat meets his hot hardness, the thin layers of cotton seeming too little and too much and he moans as she moves. Yes, she has the power and she wants more.

"Let's do it." She breathes in his ear.

"You mean...?"

"If you've got..."

Neither of them seem capable of finishing a sentence but need makes the meaning clear, and he rummages in his pocket to produce a foil packet and for a moment she is both grateful for his foresight and irritated by his presumption. Feelings that are lost in awkward fumblings, in layers of impeding satin, in clumsy manoeuvres and it is never like this in the books and the movies, and it had always been like this with Scott and she pauses in a moment of trepidation, a flash of fear...

But she does not wince, or clench, and her gasp is one of pleasure at the smooth slide, at aching emptiness filling, at pressure and pleasure and friction and thrust and it is just like in the books and in the movies and it had never been like this with Scott. She is meeting every thrust, matching his grunts with her groans and the sensations cascade through her body. She is poised on the precipice–

Deft fingers release her and her mind spirals, barely aware of her shudders, his jerks, only aware of the flash flood of feelings that waterfall to her toes. She basks in the bliss, in his gaze, in his gentle kiss...

All too soon, there is the chill of cooling sweat in night air, cramped muscles and uncomfortable limbs, awkward embarrassment and clumsy re-coverings. Some composure, some dignity, some comfort restored; she rests her head against his chest, his heart still beating double time. Words, she needs some words.

"Now would be a good time for some of that poetry, Bobby."

There is a flare, and he lights the twin cigarettes, draws deeply before passing one to her. His face is serious in the dim ruddy light.

"How about this? Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lover's eyes. "

His cigarette glows, smoke curls, bringing life to the words.

"But this is not love, Linda. This is just...now."

She lifts her head to look at him, and is struck by how ancient his eyes seem.

"I know about Scott."

And she can tell from his voice that he does know, all of it. The two- timing, the rejection, the hurt, being left dateless just weeks before the social event of the year, seeking someone easily led on, easily hurt, looking not for love but out of spite...because she was still in love with Scott. She had thought Bobby was a bit of a dork; smart but naive...

Her head drops, the curtain of hair hiding her shame.

"It's OK, I'm not sticking around. I'm off to college in the fall, and then, I don't know. Maybe the army. I need to get away from here. So, you see, I'm not in it for the long haul."

She buries her face in his shoulder, not understanding why his words hurt so much. She loved Scott...didn't she?


	4. The Soldier

"Company – halt! Present ARMS!"

The usually comforting sound of the drill breaks into his concentration, and with a sigh he rises to shut out the intruding noise. The window is stiff with layers of paint and he struggles for a moment to fasten it, looking at an uninspiring view that only appeals to his patriotism and sense of duty. The Stars and Stripes hang limply over dull, utilitarian buildings; the only flash of colour in the spectrum of drab green vehicles and uniforms that make up the military machine at work before him. It is a scene duplicated dozens of times, the world over and he could easily be in Fort Benning, USA instead of Kleber Kaserne, Germany.

He turns and surveys his office, equally uninspiring; the standard issue furniture occupying a space larger than previous offices, befitting his role of Commander, Fifth Military Police Battalion- CID. The space may be larger, the piles of paperwork certainly are. With weary resignation he sits and resumes reading.

The report is concise and well- written; a detailed account of the investigation, detention and interrogation of a ring of black market entrepreneurs selling decommissioned weapons stateside. He nods in appreciation of some of the elegant leaps of deduction and the imaginative approach. The report confirms some of the comments in attached memo but -

He is interrupted by a knock and his aide enters, balancing a mug and a sheaf of papers. Great, more paperwork.

"The top one's urgent, Sir. And don't forget Sergeant Goren is reporting at ten hundred for reassignment."

No, he had not forgotten – that was why he was trying to read the damned report. He nods his acknowledgement.

"Thanks, Tyler. Urgent, you say?"

Corporal Tyler hands the papers over and hovers, trying to find a space on the desk for the mug.

"From the FBI, request for assistance."

He takes the mug from a grateful Tyler and is already reading the message by the time the corporal leaves the room, his experienced eyes quickly scanning for the key pieces of information: Behavioural Science Unit – serial killer – possible links to US Army personnel – South Korea... Lifting the phone, he dials the number at the head of the page.

"Lieutenant Colonel Harris here, you're requesting help in Korea?"

He listens to the Section Chief outline his dilemma and smiles. This Dr Gage sounds like a bit of a wild card... He becomes aware that he is fingering Goren's report.

"Give me a couple of hours and I'll get back to you."

Replacing the receiver, he returns to the memo attached to the report.

"_...you'll remember our conversation..."_

He does, indeed, remember talking to Sergeant Major Bell about the talented but unconventional investigator on his team. The report reflected that talent but paper and ink did not convey Bell's concerns over teamwork, attitudes to authority, excess zeal – nothing blatant enough to invoke disciplinary action but more a subtle undercurrent that was unsettling Bell's unit. Hence the request for Goren to be quietly reassigned...

Glancing at the clock, he scans the personnel file that accompanied the report, quickly absorbing the pertinent details. He's almost finished when the intercom buzzes.

"Sergeant Goren's here, Sir."

"Send him in, Tyler."

He's still reading when there's a knock on the door.

"Enter!"

Trying to finish his perusal of the file, he's only half aware of marching boots, the stomp to attention, the snappy salute.

"Sir, Sergeant Goren reporting."

"At ease, Sergeant."

Leaning back in his chair, he takes a look at this man who has been preoccupying his morning. His first impression is of sheer presence; his height, his broad shoulders, his utter stillness commanding attention. No, not utter stillness – busy brown eyes are making their own assessment and he has the uncomfortable feeling that he is being picked apart, judged. He gets the first inkling of why Bell had been uneasy. But the man is following protocol, his presentation is up to code...

Realising that he will learn little more if such formality is maintained, and that he'll probably get a crick in his neck, he gestures to the chair.

"Take a seat. I've been reading your account of the Hayden and Briggs investigation. Tell me, what led you to link the two of them?"

There is a flicker of surprise in Goren's face, quickly lost as he begins to explain his thinking; his soft voice at odds with his intimidating appearance. Caught up in the memories, his posture relaxes, as does the formal speech and now he can see flashes of the attitude that was troubling Bell. Nothing overt; a touch of arrogance about his convictions, a spark of contempt for his colleagues, a glimmer of admiration for the offenders, an edge of flamboyance in his manner, an air of disregard for inconvenient procedure... It all added up to a portrait of a good man to have on your side, but a difficult man to keep there. No wonder the rigid, rule-loving Bell wanted shot of him.

Goren has stopped speaking, and there is a suspicion of a smirk as if he knows that his audience's attention is elsewhere. Damn, the man was perceptive!

He realises he needs to regain his footing and, thinking of details in the personnel file, decides to test the sergeant, push a little.

"Interesting approach. So you're fresh from furlough and ready for a new challenge, eh? How was your trip back home?"

He watches the shadow of sadness fall across previously animated features, sees the slight bristle of antagonism as Goren realises the motive behind the question. The reply, however, is calm and measured.

"Very good, thank you, Sir."

Perceptive, smart and able to rein in his temper... he decides not to push any further, suspecting that anger once unleashed would be difficult to manage and he wants to use this man, not get rid of him. He thinks of the FBI's request – no team, a longer leash, another maverick investigator, an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone -perfect.

"I've got a new assignment for you, in South Korea..."


	5. The Justice

"Stop fucking about! Let's get on with it!"

He shouts the words as he paces about the small room, kicking the metal chair out of his way, hating the waiting, wanting something - anything -to happen. His banging on the mirror is interrupted by the door opening.

"Sit down, Mr Griffin."

Her tone is every schoolteacher, every social worker, every fucking interfering busybody he's ever known bundled up in that small, tight body. His leer is automatic.

"Make me."

Her arms are braced on the table, her stare doesn't waver. Tough bitch. Her sidekick's a mess; big man but a shambles, can't even hang onto his paperwork. He keeps his eyes fixed on the woman, licking his lips as he eyes toned arms, tanned shoulders, barely aware of the man stooping to retrieve his papers.

The edge of the chair slams into the back of his knees, forcing him to fold into the seat.

"There, that's better, isn't it?"

The face is inches from his, as the man leans over his shoulder; voice soft, the smile softer, the look one of mock innocence. Bastard!

"So how do you explain the body found in the trunk in your van?"

The woman, again, all business.

"Never seen it before."

He strokes the tattooed words running up his arm, the lyrics that sang just to him, just for him. _"Kill all the bitches, the whores. Take them, rape them, make them yours." _ Fallen Angel – best band in the world.

"Never seen this? Or this? Or this?"

She's spreading photos out on the table; naked bodies decorated with blood and bruises, twisted and contorted, crammed into metal trunks. His hand drops to his lap, giving his hard- on a sneaky squeeze under the table.

"Felt good, didn't it?"

What the fuck! The big cop is casual, rocking back in his chair.

"Belonging... Like in the army, being part of something..."

The gentle words resurrect all those warm memories, and this guy knows that feeling – must do, from the way he speaks. He's rocking forward now, hands folding together on the table, eyes looking at him, into him.

"Until they discharged you."

Tone harsh, as harsh as the feelings of rejection that sting once more and there's no hard- on left to fondle; his hand useless in his lap.

"This... "

A long finger points at ripped denim, at long beard and longer hair, at tattoos and studs and the T-shirt with its lurid design.

"...is not about rebellion, is it? It's another uniform, another place to belong. Being a groupie-"

"I'm not a fucking groupie!"

Outrage brings him to his feet, and the hand beckons him down again.

"No, you're more important than that."

The words draw him back in, the eyes full of understanding, and he feels the aggression drain away, sits down again.

"You're a roadie, one of the crew, part of the inner circle."

He knows! Knows how good it felt be trusted, in a position of importance and power, the gateway access to the band... Oh! The band! Fallen Angel; idols and inspiration, energy and excitement ... He leans forward, eager to hear more.

"You could give the faithful opportunities they dreamed of - through you they could touch the sacred objects of their heroes, perhaps even get to meet them. They would do anything..."

The quiet words lull him. He closes his eyes, savouring the memories of teenage vamps, dressed for sex, their squeals of excitement as they handled guitars and buried their faces in leather jackets, cheeks flushed with arousal as they inhaled the fresh sweat of performance, their pleas to get closer, to meet...they would do anything... they did everything – hot gagging mouths, eager but inexperienced -stoned, pliant bodies opening virgin orifices – desperate for the privileges he could bestow.

His cock throbs and he opens his eyes to find he is stroking one of the photos – his fallen angels... He glances up to see brown eyes studying him. The voice is still gentle.

"It was not enough, was it, Lee? Always waiting in the wings while they got the praise, the adoration. The cheers, the applause, the roar of the crowd – never for you. "

He covers his ears, shuts his eyes again trying to block out the intrusion of words and memories of lurking in the shadows cast by stage lights, the screams of the fans, the triumphant stance of the lead singer, arms raised, head thrown back, sweat dripping from long locks, naked chest gleaming, erection outlined in leather... The voice is harsher, more strident, getting faster, louder and he opens his eyes to see the cop is out of his chair, face inches away again but there is no softness this time.

"The girls never wanted you, did they? Just like the army didn't want you. You were just something to be used, just like the band used you to do their dirty work, left you with the scraps and dregs, the pathetic hangers-on. Scrabbling around in second- hand scraps of glory. Oh, how they laughed at you – the army, the band, the girls..."

The clamour of noise; screams of the crowd, screams of laughter, screams of girls. The triumphant roar of the crowd, his triumphant roar – the power and fury of performance, the band's and his – the lyrics a relentless soundtrack- _take them, rape them, make them yours._

"They were never yours, were they?"

The voice is barely a whisper, plucking the thoughts from his brain and the eyes see, know, understand everything. He screams out his defence, his denial.

"They _are_ mine, I made them mine, they're my angels."

"Who? These?"

The photos are thrust at him.

"Yes, yes, yes!"

His sobbing admission.

"You raped them, killed them?"

He'd forgotten about the bitch cop. He looks pleadingly at the big guy, now back in his seat.

"You understand, don't you? It was their fault, they didn't see _me_. I _made_ them see me. They were just trash, until I made them into my angels..."

There was no softness, no gentleness in the voice this time, no harshness either - just immense sorrow, deep brown eyes condemning.

"I understand they were innocents, Lee. Young girls, daughters, full of hope and dreams, star struck, just wanting a taste of the magic. They were always angels. _You_ made them trash."

For the first time in his life, he experiences shame.


	6. The Old Man

"Stop it! He'll hear..."

"What? Embarrassed that you've got a crush on a man old enough to be your father? Scratch that – your _grandfather_."

She casts a quick glance over at the man in question, but he seems oblivious; left hand turning his pen over and over, head resting on his right hand wrinkling his– ok, handsome – face further, his bulk dwarfing the table covered with books.

"I do not! He's just...interesting. And he's famous. Have you read his stuff?"

She grabs another stack of books from the trolley and begins to replace them on the shelves.

"Ugh! No. Who wants to read horror stories about sick psychos?"

"It's fascinating; warped minds and their origins. And in his novels, they're not just monsters – he humanises them somehow... Anyway, it's just make-believe; scary fiction to give you safe thrills."

"Fiction? Are you sure? Didn't you say the guy used to be a cop? Perhaps he's writing about real people he met...On that note, Gem -"

Her friend's voice becomes even cheerier.

"I'll leave you to your sickos and old men; I'm off to meet Kai. Now there's a man worth mooning over."

She watches her friend flounce away and giggles at the kiss she blows in the direction of the author, who is now furiously scribbling, still oblivious. Oh, for some of Trish's vivacity... She always feels dull and serious in comparison. Shelving complete, she wheels the empty trolley back to her desk and begins to work on cataloguing the new journals in this month.

The task is complex and absorbing and she loses herself in it, enjoying the need for meticulous attention to detail and the opportunities to get side tracked into reading the latest research in a dozen different fields. She's not sure how long he has been standing there before she becomes aware of his presence. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Mr Goren, sorry, I was miles away."

"Somewhere interesting, I hope."

There is humour in those compelling eyes and there it is – that smile; it melts away the years from his face, makes her melt. The smile that Trish has never seen. Blushing even more furiously, she replies;

"It's a study into how to enhance organic solar cells using...Never mind, I'm sure you're not interested."

But she's not sure of that, his reading seemed so varied judging from the range of material he requested. Wonder what he's after today?

"If you can tear yourself away, could you track down a copy of 'A Field Guide to Moths of Eastern North America' by –uh – Covell?"

She doesn't point out that he could easily access the information, and probably a digital copy of the book, from his terminal that sat dark amongst the books on the table. They'd had this discussion before; he preferred paper.

As she bent to the task, she could see from the corner of her eye his hands getting busy – spinning the arms on her novelty pencil topper, examining her name plate, testing the soil of her plant pot – and she resists the urge to slap their irritating intrusion into her personal stuff. Retrieving the printout of the order, she is a fraction too late to prevent him opening the birthday card.

"Love from Gavin...hmm."

She grabs for the card, cheeks now flaming, but he doesn't let go and his eyes seem to divine every facet of her life so pathetic that her birthday wasn't remembered by shallow friends and only honoured by her brother...There's a twitch of that smile again, but it contained no derision and, flustered, she finally manages to exchange the printout for the card.

She watches him walk away – a tall, broad man stooped from age and a lifetime of leaning down to listen, his shuffling gait that always tempted her to check his feet for slippers – and summons up a little courage.

"Mr Goren!"

He half- turns, his face quizzical.

"Your books... do you ever get nightmares thinking about stuff like that?"

There is a long pause, as he considers his answer.

"Maybe I write them because I have nightmares."

That thought perturbs her; she finds it hard to settle back into cataloguing and is grateful for another distraction. A tiny, silver- haired lady marches across the room, radiating annoyance.

"Bobby! I said one o'clock in the diner for lunch. It's nearly two!"

It's amusing to watch her bustle about him - closing and stacking books, zipping that battered leather binder he always carried with him, gathering his scarf and jacket – and to see him sitting there; sheepish, childlike, ineffectively protesting –

"Eames, please..."

His manner is not browbeaten, nor is his expression one of weary resignation, more one of fondness. It brings to mind dance partners; each falling automatically into step as the music starts. He shrugs on the proffered jacket, she tucks her hair behind her ear and they are ready.

The procession passes her desk; the woman's steps brisk, his shuffle a beat behind, and just as they reach the door, he pauses.

"Wait a moment."

She stifles another giggle as the woman rolls her eyes, and Mr Goren approaches. His large hand pats the desk.

"Happy – uh – birthday."

He seems a bit lost, and she struggles for something more meaningful to say than mere thanks, but the moment is lost. He's already hurrying after his friend, holding the door open as she ducks under his arm. As she watches the pair, there is an instant – an exchanged glance, a shared smile, the two of them framed in the glass doorway – that fills her with envy at their comfortable companionship.

The day seems a little drearier at their departure and it is with an air of sufferance that she wheels the trolley over to gather up his books. One sits alone in the centre of the table, its gaudy cover at odds with the stacks of dull reference texts.

'The Call of the Lonely' the cover proclaims. 'The latest spine-chiller from acclaimed author, Robert Goren.'

His latest book! It wasn't due to be released for another two weeks. She spins round, snatches up the hardback and races to the door. But he is nowhere in sight. Oh, well – she'll just hang on to it, return it when he comes in next. He's usually in two or three times a week. She's about to stash it in her drawer when curiosity gets the better of her. Just a sneak peek...

His handwritten scrawl decorates the flyleaf;

_Gemma - To paraphrase Thomas Aquinas "It's better to illuminate than merely to shine." – Robert Goren _

Crush? No. She's a little bit in love with him...


	7. The End

Stop ... don't force me to do this.

She doesn't want this responsibility, doesn't want to be the one who decides, doesn't want to be the one who...

_Look at him. Do you think he wants this? Do you think he wants to be this way? _

She looks – but doesn't see what's before her. Only sees memories and magic tricks, smiles and surprises, books and bear hugs.

_That's done with now, there will be no more. Let him go._

Her hand squeezes his and remembers his touch; his arm around her shoulder, exuberant hugs of greeting, how it felt to bury her tears in his chest as she buried her parents, the drawn- out squeezes of goodbyes.

_Say it. Say goodbye. Because he can't._

And she needs his words, because her life has been filled with his words. The phone calls, the e-mails, the old-fashioned handwritten letters. And the sound of his voice; teasing, soothing, encouraging, educating, amusing, inspiring...

_But silent now. Nothing but silence. Listen._

She listens – to the empty hollow left by the absence of his words but not silence. There is that damned puff and wheeze of the ventilator forcing her to face reality, to face what was before her, to face the decision she must make. The decision that is making her heart ache.

_It's not the first time you've faced heartache – remember..._

Of course, she remembers. How could she forget? Her beloved dog, Lottie, her constant childhood companion; how she had pummelled out her pubescent rage on the solid wall of his chest after the final trip back from the vets. Adam, first love, first betrayal; the teenage tears she had shed on his broad shoulder. Her loving parents, who she had believed immortal, until the car crash; the safe harbour of his embrace as the storms of grief turned the young woman into a child again.

_He was there for you... as you were there for him when he lost Alex._

Alex, his... She didn't know what to call her. His partner, yes, for all those years as a cop. His friend, certainly, for all those years after. Something more? If so, they were discreet. He'd always called her Eames – a hangover from workdays that had morphed into a private joke but had always seemed like an endearment. But after the heart attack, after the funeral, it was 'Alex' he had whispered at the graveside and she had never seen him look so small, so broken and he had clung to her.

_He needed you..._

He needed her as he tried to cope with the loss, cope with the succession of small strokes - each one stripping away a little piece of him but never touching his mind. And she had opened her home to him, made his needs part of her daily life, not out of duty or obligation but out of love.

_He needs you now... to do one more thing for him._

He needs me now.

Her vision blurs and she lets go of his hand.

"Do it."

She turns her back, not wanting to witness the final indignities. Her reflection stares back at her from the darkened window and she sees the shadow of him in her heavy lidded eyes, her tilted head, her unruly curls.

At last there are no infernal machines, just blessed silence and she looks, really looks at him.

Sees the empty shell that the final stroke left behind when it took his mind - eyes shut, mouth closed, hands still – and wonders where he's gone, where his heaven is. She suspects it may be back to the exhilarating rollercoaster of those early years in the Major Case Squad that he talked about so much. For her, it'll always be that year he had lumbered into her childhood, charmed his way into her heart and stayed there.

She leans over and kisses his cheek, feeling the stubble that even the excellent attention of the nurses couldn't eliminate, missing the bashful grin and flush of pleasure that had always followed previous kisses.

"Goodbye, Uncle."

Her husband's arms are warm and welcome as he rises to greet her in the small waiting area. She allows herself to be engulfed as she sobs out her loss.

"He loved you, Molly. I love you."

And it's not enough to heal the hurt, but it's a beginning. She straightens, takes a deep breath, and holds out her hand to the small boy lost in his book.

"Come on, Bobby, let's go home."

_A/N_

_Many thanks for reading and reviewing. I greatly appreciate your interest._

_Usual disclaimer – LOCI is not mine – if it was, I'd be writing scripts – not fanfiction._

_The title, summary quote and chapter headings are all based on the "All the world is a stage" monologue from "As You Like It" by William Shakespeare. Bobby quotes the Bard in Ch 3 with his poetry from "Romeo and Juliet."_

_No resemblance is intended to any actual band called Fallen Angel or their fans or their roadies..._


End file.
